David Lewis Paget

Play The Man... - Poem by David Lewis Paget

I stood at the back of the Oxford crowdWhen Latimer was burned, He stood by Nicholas Ridley whoWas burning, in his turn, Latimer said to ‘Play the man, 'I know, I heard him shout, ‘We shall light a candle in EnglandThat will never be put out! '

I felt the tears stream from my eyesAt such a show of faith, And cursed the Catholic MaryFor her bloody lack of grace, The fire burned Ridley's nether partsAnd caused him terrible pain, They died true martyrs to the faith, I hoped I'd do the same.

I was a lowly pikeman sentTo keep the crowd in line, But they stood mute in horror atThe hated monarch's crime, I stood again as Cranmer placed His hand into the flame, To pay for recantations signedBy the hand that was to blame.

But Bloody Mary soon was dead, Elizabeth now reigned, Religion turned upon its head, Was Protestant again, The clergy could recant or payImprisonment for life, We were sent to hunt recusantsTaking hammer, axe and knife.

The stately homes of CatholicsWere searched from roof to floor, They hid the priests in priest holes, builtIn chimneys, rooms and more, We measured walls to infant squalls, We shattered brick and stone, Removed wood panels, floors and doors, Would not leave them alone.

I'd watched the faces of the priestsWho'd seen my kinsmen burn, Revenge was what I sought, at leastI'd make them beg and squirm, For hundreds of my people diedWith Mary on the throne, I worked with the pursuivants whoWould make them all atone.

A whisper came that Hamley HallWas hiding seven priests, We had it well surrounded soThey couldn't flee, at least, Sir Thomas Cheswyn was the squire, With Anne, his lady wife, We burst in through the oaken doorAt just about midnight.

A week we searched and probed and prod, We tore some walls apart, We climbed up to the rooftop toThe eaves, to make a start, Sir Thomas swore, ‘There's no-one here, We keep a peaceful scene, By whose authority do you…'We answered him, ‘The Queen.'

We wouldn't let him leave that place, His wife, or servants too, We questioned them eternallyFor they were Catholics too, ‘You set your Papist tyrannyOn us, so now you'll pay, You'll either give your bishops upOr live to rue the day.'

But Hamley Hall was massive, Was a house of forty rooms, We found a secret passageBut it led us nowhere soon, We'd almost given up the huntWhen word came through for sure, There's seven priests in seven holes, Make sure you bar the door! '

The leader of the pursuivantsWas grim, and cold as ice, He never said a kindly word, I saw him smile but twice, He locked the doors and made us pileThe flooring round the walls, Then set a flame to Hamley House, The memory appals.

I thought that I was full of hateUntil I heard them scream, The flames devoured the mansion whileI stood, as in a dream, And priests leapt from the upper floorsTheir garments well ablaze, But only three got out of there, The mansion burned for days.

And Cheswynd burned inside his house, His wife and baby scarred, The servants perished from the fumesThe other priests were charred, While I, a lowly pikeman thought: ‘What God would seek this fate? Religion is some twisted thingWhen man turns love to hate! '